


Birds of the air

by mercuriosity



Category: Good Omens, Princess Tutu
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-23
Updated: 2009-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:45:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuriosity/pseuds/mercuriosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, it all came down to ducks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of the air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afrai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrai/gifts).



> The concept of duckness is shamelessly stolen from P.G. Wodehouse, via afrai's City of Angels, which is basically the whole reason this thing exists.

_Now the LORD God had formed out of the ground all the beasts of the field and all the birds of the air. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. _~ Genesis 2:19

  
One of the ducks wasn't a duck.

Aziraphale had been coming to this pond for a long time—once every century or so—and while ducks came and went, they all shared something, a certain _duckness_, that was instantly identifiable, and infinitely comforting. Aziraphale knew ducks, and this duck—the one with the funny little feather that stood at attention on top of its head—was not a duck. Or rather, it _was_, but it was something else, too; underneath the impression of _Duck_, Aziraphale could just barely make out another aura, one that said, of all things—_Girl_. Aziraphale was more than a little surprised; he hadn't seen anything like this since that one rather clumsy angel had tripped on his way down to Earth and found himself abruptly stuck in a donkey with a very impatient rider.

"Well, hello," he said, offering her a bit of bread. "How did you get to be that way?"

"Quack," said the duck.

"Do you have a name?"

"Quack," said the duck.

"'Duck.' Hmm, yes, I might have guessed." Suddenly, she quacked and swam away from him, and Aziraphale looked up to see a young man—barely more than a boy, really—approaching the pond. He had dark hair that was tied in a ponytail, and was carrying a book and a small loaf of bread in his arms. He looked at Aziraphale suspiciously.

"Hello," Aziraphale said brightly, moving over on the bench to make room for the boy to sit down. "I was just having a chat with the young lady—er, duck," Aziraphale amended quickly. Not quickly enough: the boy's eyes first went wide, then narrow. Aziraphale coughed and tried his hardest to project an air of genial uninterestingness; something he usually did particularly well.

"How do you—" the boy hesitated, then gave his head an irritable shake, as if he thought he might be hearing things. "Never mind."

They lapsed into silence for a moment. The boy threw a few crumbs toward the pond, and Aziraphale noticed how his severe expression softened as he looked at the duck that wasn't a duck. His gaze fell to the book resting by the boy's side. "_The Prince and the Raven_, is it?" he inquired politely.

"Hmm? Oh, this. Yes," the boy said, picking it up, and it was Aziraphale's turn to stare—how had a young man like this come across such a valuable book?

"What's the matter?" the boy said, looking at Aziraphale strangely.

"That's a very rare edition," Aziraphale said in tones of hushed awe, restraining the urge to reach out and grasp it in his hands. "May I ask where you got it?"

The boy's eyes narrowed again. "It was a gift," he said, holding it to his chest protectively. "And it's not for sale."

Aziraphale suppressed a sigh of disappointment. "No, of course not." He tossed the last of his bread into the pond and stood up. He ought to get going, or he'd be late for his dinner appointment with Crowley. "Nice chatting with you."

As he turned to go, the boy said, "Wait—"

Aziraphale turned around. "Yes?"

The boy paused, and grimaced, as if he hated what he was about to say. "Do you know anything about...changing someone—or something? Into something else?"

Aziraphale felt a rush of warmth toward the boy; but unfortunately, miracles of that magnitude were outside of his domain. "I'm afraid I can't help you," he said, as kindly as he could.

The boy's face fell, and Aziraphale felt compelled to reassure him. "Don't worry," he said. "In my experience, people will always be exactly as they _are_, in the end. No more and no less." And while the boy was still looking at him quizzically, he turned and walked away from the pond, humming Tchaikovsky's _Waltz of the Flowers_ and smiling to himself.


End file.
